Camp Follower
by RedSmileyFace
Summary: Sandor, while traveling with an army, gains a new camp follower, a willing and wanton Little Bird. Shameless smut, AU from the start. Violence, miscarriage, suicidal thoughts, falling-in-love, eventual happy ending.
1. A New Woman

**Author's Notes: In lieu of a dark red, or a man, I've taken to writing smut in between stories of more merit. Anywho... I'd say I'm sorry, but ... *shrugs shoulders*. I hope this is enjoyed! **

**Sandor**

Grunting over her, feeling her tightness, her wetness, her delicate wrists under his one hand, her firm breast under his other, feeling his blood lust abating for something… life affirming.

The primal instinct to survive: kill and be the last man standing. That had been his whole world for hours that day, and now he was still alive, the battle over and won, but the blood still sang in his veins.

He thrusts, hard and fast, eliciting loud gasps from the camp follower beneath him. He did not want tenderness; her hands were above her, punishment for trying to touch him intimately. Her legs, though, they were free to hug him, to rise and caress his sides.

It was as if it were his last day to live, and her last chance to please him. Grunting in place of laughing, he allows her lean and silky smooth legs to rub against his leathery sides, slick with sweat and blood; if that battle were any indication, he would have many days, perhaps moons, to live. It was her life that was in jeopardy.

She moans, long and loud, swiveling her hips just so, rising and meeting him thrust for thrust. If he didn't know any better, she could have been a whore from the city itself. If he didn't know any better, she sounded like she was having the best fuck of her short life.

He feels his balls tightening, and he's finishing, half groaning half screaming his peak, and soon it's a duet, the ancient song of mating rising to the sky, only to be stopped by the heavy canvass of his tent.

He is on the verge of collapsing, but looks to his conquest first, this rare find he has beneath him. The red haired flushed young woman is breathless, breathing harshly but blissfully, breasts heaving attractively, eyes closed and mouth open in post orgasmic pleasure. It's enough to keep him hard.

Whoever she was with before, the sad sonofabitch is most likely carrion food, the way she was wandering the tents, looking for a new man to pack her along with his supplies for when they next move.

He claimed her; draining the last of his ale he grabbed from the bonfire, led her to his tent, allowed her to pull him on top as if he were her lover, but he had put a stop to that romantic nonsense, ripping both their clothes off and entering her without preamble, and now they were done.

She was tearless, though, and nary a regret or complaint came from her lips, only sounds of pleasure. She had all the span of a blink to get used to his face, and when her eyes now open again, she offered a smile anyway.

He wants to be angry; it is all he knows, to be rid of her like all the others, to shove a bag of herbs in her hands, and to shove her out the tent flap. The truth is, she is looking at him, without fear, without regret, and, if her miniscule moans were any indication, without hesitation for round two.

Her hands, trapped within a cage of his huge hand, her chin, ensnared by his free hand, her lips, stolen for a moment by his. It is one last test, and she passes, moaning and stealing his lips back. He decides he'd rather keep a woman that won't make him angry, and thrusts again.

**SANSA**

Even in sleep, she remembers not to hug him with her arms. Her legs, though, they remember that he allowed them to embrace him. Her arms curl against her, squashed between their respective, naked chests, while one leg curls around his hip and behind his thigh. It will entice him, come the morning, and even in sleep his body is not immune to her cunt so close to his cock.

Now, however, they sleep. His own arms ironically surround her: one beneath her head, the other round her waist. Arms that promise possessiveness, and hardship should she leave him, either stolen or of her own will: he will fight to keep her.

Her life, is it better, or worse with him? She knows not, but perhaps she will stay with one man for a longer period then she has known recently, and that itself is a brand of "better".

*3* *3* *3*

**Post Script: There is more... and certain questions will be answered. How Sansa became a camp follower in the first place, among the answers.**


	2. Baggage Claim

**Author's Notes: Thank you for the reviews! They're awesome. And thanks for following, too! I hope the rest of the story lives up to the beginning...**

**Sandor**

He gives her an extra cloak he has lying about, worn and stained; but she smiles anyway, draping it over her shoulders and clutching it closed. He doesn't caress, kiss, or hug her in farewell, just mounts his warhorse without a backwards glance and moves off with the rest of the soldiers, knights, and freeriders. As if they had not wakened within each-others arms come the dawn, and had not taken care of primal urges that ended up satisfying both.

He is a soldier, a seasoned warrior, and a highly valued killing machine that has no place in his world for attachments. He had learned that lesson early, and carried that philosophy all through his life. When he thinks of the woman (who told him her name was "Sansa" as she dressed earlier), he thinks that even though she is a rare find of beauty, wantonness, and welcoming eyes, she will be gone before the moon travels far through the heavens. Perhaps by his own hand, perhaps from his masters wishing to take yet another piece of his soul, as they had his all. And he will not protest, just wash down the bitter complaints with as much wine as possible.

She is a camp follower, she will follow with the rest; with the baggage train, the prisoners, the whores, the widows, the orphans, the dogs. It is a mishmash of shit, and it's a wonder that any man can keep track of what is his. There is a sort of honor, though, and when they stop their march, each man will have his possessions again, or will fight before relinquishing to the better man.

The Hound rarely has to fight for what is his, a mark of his prowess and the frightening attitude he exudes. He demands respect, too, not just fear; rarely does he take from other men, and will from time to time stay an enemy's blow against his "brothers in arms". For all that, the woman will be his again tonight.

He does not show affection towards her, but nevertheless he adjusts his crotch in remembrance of her, one could almost use the word "in admiration" of her but there has been so little adoration in his life, that it is asking too much just yet, but he is certainly barely able to contain his impatience to see her again.

When they stop, squires of "sers" will come to the Hound to see if he needs help. He remembers all their names, those trying to curry favor with him, knowing of his favor with the Lannisters, and he is amused more then anything because it does them no good; he will not raise them high in life. Perhaps all it will do is inspire him to not harm them, or to block an enemy's blow upon the field of battle.

He is pitching his tent, with the help of a squire, when another squire comes to him, bags tumbling from his arms, and her as well, walking behind the boy. She graces him with her smiles again, small but bright and friendly.

He only nods then. If she expects anything from him, she hides her disappointment well, only moving to gather wood. The Hound gives her a proper hello only after the squires leave. If proper was to snatch his cloak off of her, and to squeeze her breasts. The day was long and boring, and all the excitement to be had was by the lords proper, though with words and treaties as opposed to swords and lances. He finds his new treasure alluring and distracting, especially as throughout the long day her image and their trysts flitted through his mind.

She is still eager and willing, and though she tries to caress him again, he doesn't huff like he did last time. Just tuts at her, and turns her around the way he wants, unties his breeches, and takes her like the dog he is.

His calloused hand encases one of her hips, grasping and bruising. It is his anchor to her, as his knees anchor him to the ground, helping him with his steady and strong pace. His other hand spans her back, feeling the smooth and silken skin, making him question where she has come from, to have such fine and healthy skin. Making him question the urge to have her silken legs around him again.

No longer content with her moans directed at the floor, he flips her around, raising her legs himself over his shoulders, kissing her silken and quivering thighs, before making his slow way up to smell her throat. Though she is tall herself, by the time he is sheathed again, her legs fall from his shoulders to the ground. Her hands, remembering, find purchase on the ground, while his cock relishes the wet smoothness of her cunt.

His groans are buried within her throat, while her moans attack his ear. And when he finally collapses on her, sated, her hands find the courage to caress his back, while her legs surround his own legs. He does nothing to discourage her, just relishes the fact that he is encased in her silken warmth, committing the moment to memory for a day when she would not be around.

**Sansa**

The same routine follows for many days. He was rough and coarse, he never wanted false romance as others did, but he was better in other ways then just being a constant presence.

He never questioned the bruises and cuts that she had, those that slowly faded and disappeared because he never added to them. He gave her good food off his plate, and that was nicer then just giving her whatever he didn't feel like eating. He not only gave her an extra cloak, but also gave her dryer clothes after it rained, an extra tunic when it got cold, and extra socks when it snowed. They were all large, worn, and a man's clothing; but never before had a man she followed done so much for her.

And when her moon blood comes, he still has her warm his bedroll, forgoing the search for a "cleaner" woman. He'll make her stroke him or orally please him, but that's fair, she thinks, for the gift of sleeping in the warmth of his tent, rather then the cold forest floor that does nothing for her cramps. And when she honestly assess the situation, she finds she likes pleasing him thus, afterwards enjoying his tender silent "thanks" in the form of warm hands caressing her arms and abdomen.

For so long she had fended for herself, occasionally with the help of another follower, scrounging through supplies or, at the lowest moments, going through the dead upon the battlefields. Even when with a man, the dead were nicer at times; the dead, at least, never hurt her.

Shae had taught her the finer points of this way of life, when Sansa was first hesitant to ask a man to shelter her. One could not look at a man and judge, as one could not do the same for a book. They giggle at the metaphor, one of the few times in recent memory Sansa has of giggling, before she learns that Shae had learned that from her own man, the one they called "Half-Man". Sansa misses Shae at times, wondering if life was better for her in the city, or worse.

Sansa is still alive, she believes, with the help of Shae. Sansa hasn't always followed the pretty men either; she had been with one-armed men, fat men, men of skin and bones, men with one eye: most had scars, and some even had their own burned skin. None as bad as the Hound, none as fearsome looking as he, but all had tested her poise at one point or another, so when it came to the Hound, the last in a long line of men, it was no hard feat to smile at him.

He only made it easy to continue smiling, despite his ways. She would almost say, because of his ways.

And once she made it past his face (and that quickly done while he was draining the last of his ale), his body was beautiful and hard, reassuring and solid, gentle in it's own way. It did not seem as if he tried to make her sing, to make it good for her, but sing she did anyway, relishing the heat despite his cold demeanor, loving that he (intentionally or not) made her enjoy it, as other men just took their own pleasure.

She had wanted to please him the first time, to make it so he would not give her up. She was tired of trading useless and dead men for other useless and soon to be dead men. She went with him, sure he would be difficult to live with, but sure she could entice him and have his protection, if from nothing else, at least from having to rob the dead.

She succeeded, but was surprised when he pleased her as well, when he made it easy to be around, despite both of their preconceptions.


	3. The Bratty Sister

**Author's Notes: Thank you SO MUCH for the reviews (though I don't reply to all, they do make me giddy with joy), and for seeing this as worthy to follow and/or favorite. :) **

**SANDOR**

Tonight, he will be cold. The woman he has taken for himself will warm the bed of her sister, leaving him to himself for the first time in over a moon. He reflects on his growing attachment, that he would_ allow_ her this, _allow_ her and her bratty sister a corner of his tent, and not seek the warmth of another woman. Would not even crave another, so long as SHE was still near.

Their army had come across a group of bandits, easily subdued, and when their prisoners were either killed or roped, his treasure had broken through, sobbing, and hugged a small looking ragged boy, who turned out to be none other then Sansa's little sister. She had begged, pleaded, and cried, and he gave in, giving his word to his own masters that he would be responsible for the new addition to their growing number of orphans. He thinks: "What the hell am I doing?"

His wanton little bird had not pleaded for her own life, or for him to be gentle, or for anything else. She was all that he could want in a woman, and he questions his questioning of his growing attachment; of course it would happen. How stupid could he be? To both let it happen, and then to not know how it happened? His blood was up from earlier, yet _still_ he allows Sansa her peace.

The little brat says nothing, offers nothing but glares, and even turns away from her sister every now and then. But she accepted the warm cloth that cleaned her cuts, and the tunic that serves as a dress to cover her, and the bearskin blanket that keeps her warm this night, that and Sansa snuggling with her.

Without the exercise he normally expects at night, he spends his evening thinking. Their campfire had been broken with sisterly tears, tales, and disbelief, and of his own brooding silence. They were both runaways, and the last of their family, separated while trying to run together; it only made him curious, hearing so much yet so little. They spoke only of their adventures since, but of nothing before her sister joining outlaws or of Sansa whoring herself. He'll hold off with the questions, for now, but plans to know soon.

The next day, he could care less about the brat. But everything he gives to HER, she gives to her younger sister. So he gives Sansa double. And when he mounts his horse, he turns to her, threatens "tonight", and moves off with the rest.

At night, the brat tries to gain his favor: helping him set up his tent, tending the fire, taking off his armor. He admits, she's good at it for a girl, and tells her that she can stay. But outside so long as he has his woman occupied. She scrunches her face up, squatting to the fire, back to him, and he laughs, tugging the elder sister in with him.

Part frustration, part teasing, he is louder then before, urging her to be louder as well, going so far as to_ allow_ her to hug him. Chests mashed together, relishing her teats against him and her breathy moans hot on his face.

Encouraging her some more, he brings a hand down to her sex, pushing a finger upon her apex. Gratifyingly, she yelps in surprise, followed quickly by a moan. Her back arches more then it already is, and his other hand steadies himself on the floor. His thrusts speed up, with her legs where he's come to like them, sliding against his sides as they rock in a rhythm as old as time, and he makes sure he yells her name as he comes, the idea of someone hearing igniting him pleasurably.

She blushes beautifully at what they have done, but hugs him close despite her embarrassment, small aftershocks perfectly ending the unbelievable tryst. He'd like to go again, but amazingly enough, he allows her to plead with him, no more with that kid so near.

She makes sure they are covered with appropriate amounts of blankets before he allows her sister to come into the tent.

**SANSA**

Her little sister waves from the stern of the "Blackbird", the only free ship in port, and Sansa fears she might never see Arya again. Arya could not get over her anger and sadness of her new found friends' deaths, so would not stay. Sansa cries knowing there was nothing she could do, but understands as well. Neither had been too lucky recently, Sandor being an exception. She can only pray that the Wall will afford Arya an exception as well.

Her two loves had fought over her position, the Hound claiming her as his, Arya speaking of their freedoms and love for the northern ways. In the end, it had been her own words, her own reasons, that had decided her fate; she would stay with the Hound.

They were a few days ride from their final destination, the slow army crawl coming to an end, and soon she and he would share a feather bed, for as long as he wished to have her following him. Maybe after he released her (though she hopes it's a long way off), she'd travel north again, a destination finally forming as a backup plan.


	4. Bleeding Out the Truth

**Author's Notes: A deviation from the norm... Sorry! But it's my attempt to give credence to my story, such as it is. I hope it is somewhat believable and/or enjoyed.  
**

**WARNINGS: Sexual abuse and graphic scenes.**

**Sandor**

She miscarries.

The babe had been her reason for staying with him, arguing with her sister that her child deserved to know it's father, and that he, the Hound, would be a worthy one. At the time, he said nothing against this, knowing it was a major deciding factor, if not the only one, for her staying with him. If not for that, he would have spoken about how it would have been better for it to not know its father, for many other men to not know their kin, besides.

But he is weak for her, does not want her to leave yet, and so he says nothing then. He says nothing now, knowing what he'd say would not be welcome by her. He figures it's for the best; he doubts of the life he could give it and it's mother.

Perhaps later in life, perhaps when he has answers to his questions of what he sees in their future together. But for now, he hugs her to him, her back facing him, shoulders wracking with sobs, and he wonders when the last time he had tolerated a crying woman was. The last one had been shoved out of his tent...

He strokes her stomach, and her sobs subside to occasional hiccups, and he wonders what might have been... inhaling her scent through her hair, he imagines it to have her hair, her eyes, her... everything. If he were to have a babe, he'd want none of himself in it. Knowing that to be impossible, he swears to himself that moon tea will be her constant drink again, no matter what she will say. It's a miracle she hadn't died with the miscarriage, what with all the moon tea she had been drinking _before _he claimed her. He curses their stupidity.

He has told her about his family, his past, and his desire to end it all; who does she think she is? To ask for something more than he is willing to give? Perhaps he should give her up for a man who would willingly give her a family... That though angers him more than the thought of a bastard.

She is a camp follower; that ideal life is virtually impossible for her. She has told him very little of her past, and he still does not know how she became an army's whore.

He asks now, she becomes completely silent. Grabbing one of her hands, he comments that they are too dainty, even if dirty and smelly now, to be of a working class family. He strokes her thighs, those silky limbs he loves so much, raising her skirt to her hips, commenting that they barely have blemishes, and neither does the rest of her skin, despite the muscles that have blossomed since becoming a camp follower. She must have been a merchant's daughter, or higher.

She tries to get him to stop, but he just moves her leg back over his, fumbling with his other hand at his breeches, and he whispers his ideas that she might be a lord's bastard, or steward's daughter, or a lady's servant.

His arms go around her shoulders and thigh to prevent her from moving away, and he lines himself up to enter her. She pleads with him, begs him, the first she had ever railed against him, and it makes him mad, sad at the same time. She's injured, sore, drained, and needs to regain her strength, this could wait for another better moment, and it was only the first time he thought to ask, what was the urgency to know? But still he persists in almost raping her, wanting to finally glean information from her, and unable to listen to his conscious.

House Stark, he learns from her screams. Minor house in the north, House Umber its liege. Relaxing his hold, he kisses her neck, removing himself from her, shushing her sobs and cried answers into silence. He knows the rest, how her family answered the call of its liege to fight a hopeless, defensive war against the combined might of the south, Lannisters and Baratheons and Tyrells (amongst others), almost three years ago.

Sansa must have been barely a woman then, losing her family, he thinks as he smooths down her skirts. It all lost to her when the army, _his_ army, sacked her home and broke the might of the north. Lady Stark is now grinning the red smile, courtesy of _Ser _Raymund Frey after he raped her, Sandor had heard, while her husband and his heir were slain upon the battlefield.

The result was a unified, though bloody and angry, Westeros; unified as it was before the lions stormed the castle and claimed themselves kings after decimating the dragons; though they were not much better at leadership in the long run. The North had found reason to abstain from the rebellion, as none had friendly ties with the South, and became its own kingdom once again, only to suffer for their perceived insult years later.

Sandor is only glad that he had been fighting at Umber's seat at the time, and had nothing directly to do with her losses. He knows little and less about the rest of the family; till now, not even aware Stark had daughters, such was knowledge of minor households, and here he had a lord's high born get all along. The guilt comes full force.

She cries anew, now over family instead of a lost babe, and he knows his presence would not be as comforting as it was before. Disentangling himself from her, he leaves his own tent to give her privacy.

**Sansa**

She wonders what he will do with this information.

At times, lying under unworthy men, she wonders if death would have been preferable. But the urge to live, that had been strong. The dreams, they inspired her, too, to fight for another day. And when she met him, her Hound, it had been easier then thought possible to sing with the possibilities of life again.

In the confusion of the attack of Winterfell, Arya had grabbed her, had saved their lives by disguising herself as a serving boy and Sansa as a maid, and led the way out of their home. Otherwise, they, as lord's daughters, would have been put to the blade, if not brutally raped first.

This night was the first in a long while that the despair came again. The cries of the slain and dying feeding her own sobs anew, the smells of blood and sounds of thunder crashing down her walls of strength, wretched memories piercing her mind while fears slice at her already tattered heart. Her hiding place has been discovered: she'll be dragged from the bed not by her sister, but by the bloodhounds seeking to destroy the last vestiges of House Stark...

In the end, he does nothing with the information of her past; he just seems content to have the truth of who she really is.


	5. Interlude

**Author's Notes: This story has consumed me, and not in a good way. I wish I had updated less frequently then I had, but alas. Anyway, the rest of the story is written, but will be reworked, as I realized I'm not to happy with how it stands. Anyway, I want to take a breather, and to take my time with the rest. So there will be a SHORT hiatus, nothing too long (a week, two at most), but letting you know, it won't be a daily update anymore. **

**Also, this is an interlude, it is not meant to deal with heavy issues. But I don't want my readers to worry that I'm ignoring some issues, so I'm writing here to say, more drama coming later!**

**As always, many thanks for many wonderful reviews/follows/favs. :)**

**SANDOR**

Bathwater splashes out of the tub as she's rides him, a percussion that accompanies her stringed moans, and he offers his bass groans to complete their song.

He holds her thighs, stroking them, and he thrusts up as well. Her hands, while he has come to like her hugs, are still hesitant to hold him at times so they grasp the tub's edge. Encouragingly, he wraps an arm around her to bring her close, taking a teat into his mouth as her hands wrap around his shoulders.

It tastes of lavender, with a hint of her lingering underneath. She had been a raw woman for so long, that he tries the other breast, to find the same taste there too. Their first bath in as long as they have been together, and he almost wishes that she were still dirty. Almost. Even he had to admit that the rank smells were getting to him, no longer able to hide under a quick wipe of damp cloths or bathing in rivers.

Her taste is not the only thing different: their song echoes on the stones, instead of being swallowed by the canvass, and the heat of the fireplace warms their bodies, instead of furs. For once, they are truly free to be naked and relaxed, so they share a bath. They relish the difference in their surroundings, glad for the change in scenery, an opportunity to try something new, grasping at any reason to move forward.

She had rubbed him red and clean, rubbing oils to kill the dirt and to make him smell pleasant, sexual tensions rising with each pass of her hand behind the cloths, breaths slowing and hitching, the first pleasant rushes of blood felt in over a fortnight flowing deep.

He had returned the favor, made her body shine with health that he has not yet seen, it marveling him, causing him to claim her lips to release the rising tensions, though it certainly raised other things, and that led to water splashing on the floor.

That night, they would lay in the peace of the castle, in the comfort of the other's arms, once again finding it to feel right. The long march was over, the war ended, and the aftermath was being dealt with. Sandor had no idea how long the peace would last, but he would remain in the capital, within the Keep, fulfilling his duties as a prized dog menacing his masters' enemies, they content with his loyalty even without his vows.

Now, though, as he pumps his finish, crushing her to him as she rides out her own peak, he breaths a mental sigh of relief; relief that she still willingly pleased him, relief that fucking his wanton little bird still brought about a satisfaction that was not tinged with disgust or guilt (too much, anyway). She seems to feel the same, and that relieves him too. And before they move to dry themselves, they share a moment, forehead to forehead, smiling softly to each other: the feel of it strange, but nice, upon his face.

He promises her, already esteeming her more then any other, this rare beauty that finds it easy to be pleased in pleasing him: he swears that, though he needs no camp follower anymore, he will keep her, will honor her secret, and would keep her safe. Just for the foreseeable future, mind, but she's at ease with that stipulation, it seems.

**SANSA**

Her man gave her herbs to drink, rules to follow while in the Keep, and jobs to do while he is on duty. But she would not complain; would only muse about the time when he would tire of her and tell her to get lost, as the idea of being a camp follower no longer appeals to her. It was enough to survive and escape the sack of House Stark, but now that she is far from that particular danger, she realizes, rudely awakened to the fact, that she is also very far from her dreams being possible.

While with the Hound, she has saved enough loot to perhaps travel to Essos, where there are more opportunities for a woman not of station or married. Or she could gain the courage to go to an inn, and become a tavern wench, maybe find a good peasant man to make an honest woman of her. Most likely, however, she'll book passage north and hopefully find both Arya and sanctuary upon the Wall. She even contemplates the idea of leaving him first, since he obviously cannot, would not, give her what she wants. But something holds her back, a sense to wait just a little longer…

Whatever her fate will be, she rests easy in the knowledge that when she is removed from Sandor, life will not end.


	6. Realizations

**Author's Notes: This might be a bit wordy... or it might be just right. Thoughts? I hope it is enjoyed!**

**WARNINGS: Mentions of sexual abuse. **

**SANDOR **

The Maester had tried to get him to leave the room while he examined Sansa's wounds, but she would not let go of him, clutching his tunic and whimpering into his neck, begging him not to leave her.

He should not show deference to her, but nevertheless he holds her back, glaring at the Maester to show he would not remove himself from his Little Bird.

He knew the day would come, always like a weight in the back of his mind that would never leave, that his masters would one day ask too much of him. He had always fleetingly wondered what he would do at the time, always shrugging the question away, assuming he'd either drown in wine or break beyond repair.

He thought it would be some task that would be life threatening, or that they would tell him he was to become a kingsguard: celibate and sober. Sansa would be forced to leave, or he would, and he'd not do much about it except say goodbye, maybe kiss her farewell.

It does not surprise him that the spoiled prince would take a fancy to her, and would find a way to grab her and hurt her. He's honest enough to know it was a possibility; he tried to prevent any man accosting her as much as possible, warning her to never wander on her own, to never stray from his rooms unless he or another servant was with her, to tell her a number of other rules to protect her. And she followed them all, never questioning, never complaining, always awaiting him with open arms despite his harsh demands and cold demeanor that did not explain anything to her.

What surprises him, in the end, is the amount of anger that courses through his veins. He was supposed to be hurt, not her. Her absence, his death; he would not have welcomed either but he would have accepted: this broken woman... no never this.

He has come to admit his feelings of her to himself (though he hasn't told her), his growing attachment along the trek south, the culmination of their desires as well as their clashing wants. But he felt he could quit her as easily as quitting his horse, a friendship that ran true though did not cause him to worry when its absence was felt. Now he knows it won't be easy.

He holds her now; bleeding, a broken bone somewhere, multiple bruises, tear streaked and torn clothes, and swears he will take her away from this nightmare, though he isn't sure how.

While he carries her in his arms to his rooms, he receives many stares. It is the most affection he has ever displayed in public before, and all it is, is carrying an almost broken little bird. He would laugh, if he had felt in a laughing mood, but as it is, his mood is checked only by her clutching hands that prevent him from murdering a couple of wooden posts in the training yard, and mayhaps the servant that had not protected her...

He sleeps not a wink that night, watching and holding her as she sleeps, oblivious to the irony that as much as he used to dislike her holding him, he has never had a problem holding her. It used to be possessive, but now he holds her with no small amount of protection, such as it has yet to be effective.

He thinks of their babe, the first time he'd thought of it in a while, of Robyn (as she had named the androgynous little bastard), and he curses for missing the obvious then. He had been angry at the time, unwittingly directed at Sansa, unable to feel the other emotions bubbling underneath, those that might have told him to never let her go had he noticed them. Worry, sympathy, impotency, weakness, depression, and desire to take her pain away: the anger clouded them all, and they were accidentally the fuel that fed into his ire, instead of soothing it.

He feels the anger rising again, though not at Sansa, thankfully. He will use it productively, this time, though he knows not how. It is what keeps him awake.

Clegane Keep is not possible, not with his brother still alive. He finds he'd rather not bother with Gregor as he'd like to bother with his woman in his arms.

Desertion flits through his mind, but then floats away; there has to be an easier way.

He could marry her, could do it before they tell him not to. As little more than a soldier and glorified shield, there are no expectations placed on him, or from him, as to marriage to anyone better. Not that he wants any other woman, but when the woman sleeping in his arms has fallen so far from grace, there really is nothing barring them from marrying each other.

He scoffs at the idea at first, before really considering it. He does not want a wife or children or familial duties, never has... but could he? All he had ever wanted was to kill, drink, and fuck, mayhaps all three at times, without any further responsibilities. However, Sansa has done so much for him (and to him), and had asked for almost nothing in return. He knows it could not have been that easy at times. Robyn was proof of that. Tears then and now haunt him, and he wishes for it to never happen again.

It will be difficult to change his ways, to be a married man. But if he's honest with himself, there's no one else he'd rather have, and there is no better way to protect Sansa, to give back tenfold what she had given him, to express what he has been unable to, to either himself or her before now: love.

**SANSA **

The idea that she would have to part with Sandor no longer seems like such an easy thing. If he ever tires of her, her world would crash, she realizes now. He has made it impossible for her to ever be happy without him. There had been a time when her family had been her whole world, and the devastation of losing them pales in comparison to the mere possibility of losing her Hound.

The first man she followed was a horrifying experience. It was her first time, and he was an enemy: imposing, older, malevolent. However many men later, she looked back on the man who grabbed her first as she tried to run through the forest as a kind man, far kinder then the prince, and even a little more handsome than first thought. Her first; he prevented her ability to follow Arya, but he showed her a way to survive. He died not long after, a skirmish somewhere near the Neck proving fatal to him, though his army won.

A few women had sneered at her, at her cries and confusion and unwillingness to seduce. Shae would never have been Sansa's choice for a friend, but Shae became her salvation during those first few days. Sansa's first man dead, her very livelihood now more obliterated then before. They shared tears and hugs and stories, before Shae slapped her and toughened her up. She helped her find her second man, then let her loose to become her own self, her own madam and whore. Slowly, the heart became hardened and wary.

For so long, bruises, blood, and verbal abuse were commonplace. It was brutal, but the way things were. The men, they bled and died with nary a "thank-you" it seemed, so released pent-up frustrations and fears upon their women, and everyone was "happy"; a woman was sheltered, a man was made to feel alive.

The prince, he had no reason to be frustrated, had never even killed a man, though he hurt her more than any man on the field had done. He questioned her loyalty to that dog, and she did not deny that she preferred him to other men. That was all she had done, and the coward had tried to feel like a man in the worst way possible.

She does not fear the Hound's anger, but still tries to apologize for being such a burden: he shushes her efforts. It's ironic to think he'd be disgusted with her, when she had been little better then a whore for so long before they had met. He still treats her affectionately, and tends to her wounded body and pride, wiping blood with equal tenderness as he wipes her tears.

The realization hits her then, laying in his bed and arms, being tended to as she drifts off to sleep, that he has made his way into her heart and soul. No longer could she even think of kissing another man, let alone lying with them. Her Hound, her Sandor, had slowly consumed her with his kindness, tenderness, and affection, vulgar though they might be: rough sandpaper that gently wore away at her hardened and wary heart. Unbeknownst to herself, he had caused her to form an attachment that should never have happened, but now she knew: She loves Sandor.


	7. I Am Yours

**Author's Notes: Love the reviews, and follows, THANK YOU! haha...! I hope this chapter is enjoyed as much as the previous ones (maybe even more?)!**

**SANDOR**

Her wounds are still healing, but that does not mean that Sansa is reluctant to being pleasured. He swirls his tongue around her nub, before diving it into her depths, enjoying her legs around his neck and face for once, feeling them shake and tense with ecstasy pressed against his cheeks, his scalp pleasantly scratched by her nails.

His own heart is soaring, declarations of love making him more a fool then he thought he'd ever tolerate.

Not minutes ago, he had told her that though he knows there's no love between them, that he would marry her so he could better protect her. She could not do worse then him, after all. Or better, he growls at her, trying to persuade her in the only way he knew how. Or she could walk away to find a safer environment.

He did not want her to leave, but had worked up the courage to be denied her love, to ask her that much. He holds her hips down, now, her ecstasy would wound her if they were not careful... her very life was in danger, as those wounds attested to. To be his wife, men would be less inclined to take her. For her to leave, the beasts of King's Landing would never touch her again.

He could not work up the courage to bare his heart, though, so had slipped the one lie he ever told her there as well.

He misjudge her, never for once entertaining the remote possibility that she might return his feelings; he could not have known how much his lie of omission would hurt her. She had kissed him speechless, pecks of affection all over his face and neck, swearing that she loved him and please, would he please never tell her to leave him, that she'd do anything, even share him, to not be parted. Her tears and cries spoke of her truth, and he realizes that she had the same fears as he regarding their relationship.

He never had a woman who would want him as much as he, her, and he wonders when the hell that happened. Was it because he was a good fuck? Was it because he kept her secret? He knows he's treated her better then any other woman he's had, but still, he doesn't think his rough temperament could have won her over...

She tried to undress him, ardently kissing and shoving him to his back, but her own body betrayed her, wincing and bleeding through some bandages.

Which propelled him from his stupor to take care of her, assure her, he'd never leave her, or ask that of her. Shushing her, he rubs her shoulders and arms, leaning her back on the bed, swearing to her that he is hers, not the other way around. Caressing her thighs and stomach, avoiding her wounds, he tells her one thing he'd never told another living soul before, "I love you."

Her gasp had be pretty, her mouth inviting, her arms warm and welcoming. He didn't give her a chance to respond. He raised her skirts, and carefully took her to his mouth; glad to give her something solely for herself after all she had done for him. Another time he will ask her what made her choose him, what had caused her to desire him, what had made her love him. Now, though, he will assure her that he definitely feels the same as she.

He starts thrusting his fingers into her, biting her clit and lapping up her juices. There's a steady crescendo of mewls and cries, till finally she screams her finish, yelling his name and those of the gods, raising him up from the hellish fears he had all night, to the heavens which is her.

He grabs her hands from his scalp, raising himself over her as she comes down from on high. He's hard, so he takes himself in hand over her, looking into her teary but happy eyes, and when she says "I love you" back, he finds his own release.

**SANSA **

He talked of marriage, and she thought it was to indulge her, a whim for a man who didn't know how to pluck flowers. He said she could not do better then him, and she feared he was cruelly mocking her as he said it with malice behind what is supposed be sweet, proposing words. Then he had gone on to suggest that if she didn't like the idea, she could leave, a confusing contrast of plans that caused her to hastily conclude that he didn't like the first plan at all, and was only offering it to make it _seem_ like she had a choice. Even later on in life, nightmares will surface, the haunting idea that it was all just a joke.

No, the anger in his proposition was his own fears manifesting, that _she _would leave _him_: that, somehow, she might still have her lady-like proclivities and want someone higher then the Hound. He had said that there was no love between them: he had clearly been afraid to admit the truth.

It felt good to clear the air (if only after the rush of fear and panic that had gripped her). Somewhere, he talked of her protection, but that didn't register afterwards... Amongst all the other little things that they both should have known sooner, but were only realized now.

She had been good to him, to a man that had never been loved or had loved before. And he, well, she wasn't going to give up on a man who was everything she'd ever _really_ wanted, even as a lady: a man brave, gentle, and strong.


	8. Glory

**Author's Notes: Well, if it hasn't been figured out by now, this is a completely far out story of mine, and I wanted to continue in that strange and different vein. I do apologize if things go too far off the deep end... With that said, I hope it's still enjoyed. Thanks again for reviews! *Hugs***

**WARNINGS: (I'm not even sure it's as bad as I make it seem... opinions? ) Public sex, debauchery, war, severe injuries.**

* * *

**SANDOR**

It feels good to be in the company of soldiers again. Daily drills and sparing didn't count; this was for real, the danger was present, the sweet fight between life and death would very soon be danced again.

Not that he would admit to enjoying his men's company. In fact, he really didn't enjoy them at all, least of all the cock-sure sell-sword Bronn, he just liked the atmosphere of camaraderie and rawness that was never seen in court: it was brutal, but it was truth.

It was different this time, though. There is a woman there who would wait for him at the end of the battle, the one he had claimed as his for the rest of his life, the same one that straddled his lap now, as he and the other dead men drank their last, sang their last, fucked their last. He knew her to be a lady, but for once, he was thankful she was seen as a whore, able to come to him in her downtrodden guise to make sure he was well and truly fucked before he might die. Otherwise, she'd be with the other ladies, hidden and simpering, praying and useless.

He had asked her what the worth of degrading herself was by being with him and his men in such a manner. After everything they've been through, she just shakes her head and tells him though continuing to act as his woman, and not his wife, is not a proprietary or gallant way, it was the way that had brought them together, and she wasn't going to stop_ now,_ just before they might never see each other again. He's glad she's here.

Bronn has a naked whore on his lap, one who eats up his stories about his broken nose before giggling as said nose disappears into her cunt. Bronn is a giving man when it came to sex, Sandor could give him that... Sansa herself was still wearing a few clothes (only her body above her chest was bared above a flattering corset), unable to go that far debauched, it seemed. He liked it, though, having a woman who still held onto certain things that made her, her.

She teases him, as all the whores tease their men, caressing and joking and smiling. They are blandly false, whereas his little bird sings truths, and though he will go and face hell in a few hours or minutes or seconds, he cannot stop from smiling. The men must think he is truly deranged, grinning like a love-sick fool in the face of danger.

As she caresses his beard affectionately, she remarks that never had she heard a group of drunken brutes sing so well in tune together, not even her brothers could ever hope to match their wonderful rendition of "The Reynes of Castemere", and all the men laugh with her, and Sandor unwittingly basks in both their jealousies and her attentions, caressing her waist in return.

Soon, their wandering hands help the other unlace appropriate strings, and he is in her, hidden by her skirts. She goes slow, leisurely, rising and swiveling her hips in an unhurried fashion, and he relishes it. It is the first time either of them of fucked as part of a larger group. As he slowly drains his ale with one hand, and grasps her hip with the other, he feels sorry for the other sad sots, most of who do not know, nor ever would know, how wonderful it is to be with a woman who treasures them back. It's the first and last time he ever feels one with his men, strange as it seems coming from the act of him having a woman in their presence instead of at a brothel, hidden from view.

Her arms float around his shoulders and neck, and after he throws his mug down to the ground, he grabs her with both his hands to speed up their pace, leaning forward to relish her scent and bite her neck, marking her as his, more then she already is. They have been married for a fortnight now, just before the news of long-lost dragons both literally and figuratively descended down upon the whole of Westeros. It was a short and bittersweet wedding underneath the Weirwood, only witnessed by a handful of soldiers he trusted (Bronn ironically among them) and a few servants who have fallen for his new wife's charms.

He was certain life as a wife would afford her more niceties, but it was not to be realized. The ladies of the court, most especially his Queenly bitch of a master, only had thinly veiled contempt for her, sneering at the whore who dared rise above her station of that on her back; it's slightly worse than them ignoring her beforehand. He could wish for her to be safe amongst them now, but, as he buries his head in her neck, he cannot shake his happiness to have her near, in what could be his final hours.

There is a random lull in the conversation, a rare moment when everyone stopped talking at the same moment for who knows why, and she screams her release. All the men hear, as well as their whores, and they all cheer to Sansa's blush. He laughs into her neck, loud and raucous, the ale and wine clouding his mind against any sensitivity he might have. She doesn't seem to mind too much, though, only hugging him closer as if to have him swallow her whole.

Bronn tells her she's a right fine lass, whatever the fuck that means, though the man finally takes his woman to a back corner to properly fuck her. Sandor feels the need to follow the example, and stands up with his little bird still in his grasp, still impaled upon his hardness. He takes her further into the alcove they've been in, lying her down on the table and knocking plates and mugs around, some brown liquid finding its way into her hair. She doesn't seem to care, only smiles at him, like she always does.

He grinds nice and slow, grabbing her thighs under her skirts to raise her legs once again around him, armor and all. His sides miss her silkiness, but his hands never let go. Her moans sound more sweeter than ever, the prospect of never hearing her again bringing about an anguish he was not prepared for. All too suddenly he realizes, he _wants _to come back; he's not prepared to die anymore, he doesn't want this new life with Sansa to be over, ever.

Bells ring and they stop. Their eyes meet, panic and a sad resignation meeting each other, and while other men of his dump their ladies unsatisfied and start re-lacing and putting their weapons back on, Sandor stays glued to her. At once, she jumps to take a hold of him while he crushes her lips with his. He starts pounding into her, grabbing the table to steady his fury, accidentally biting her lips a little too hard in the process. They couldn't care less, blood pouring profusely into their mouths as their releases flow to completion. He slams home once or twice more, drawing it out as much as he could, before groaning, sagging onto her.

Reluctantly, he lets her go, his hand the last to leave her, tracing her jaw line once more. Slowly, he readjusts his breeches and sword belt, all the while memorizing her face, loving and hating the tears on her face that are meant for him. Blood still trickles from her lip, and he kisses her one last time, hoping to make it feel better.

When he goes to walk outside he notices that only the women are left in the room. Most look at him with wonder and a certain kind of appreciation. Some even crowd around his bird, helping to soothe her. He gruffly nods at them, before leaving to find his squire and horse.

**SANSA**

Her whole world stops when his horse, Stranger, comes back to the soldiers' garrison unmanned, neighing his fury and consternation, rising to his hind legs in worry and then stamping the ground in impatience. Without thinking, without considering the dangers, without listening to anyone else, she jumps on the usually un-trusting horse's back, and rushes, rather precariously, to find Sandor.

Once she finds him, lying on the ground with blood and sweat soaking everything, along with the sodden mud and a multitude of fallen bodies everywhere, and she can breathe only a tentative sigh of relief, choked by sobs and the rank smells of death. She falls from the saddle, ungracefully, while Stranger shakes his head and stamps some more, unable to stay still. Sandor's still alive, though barely, unaware of what is around him, even her, and his breaths come ragged underneath the constricting metal.

The tide of fighting is a just a short distance away, so she's able to take off the constricting and heavy armor, to tie a tourniquet around his thigh with a ripped piece of cloth, and drunkenly guide him on his horse (after literally begging the warhorse to calm down and take a knee), all without the danger of being found out.

Soon, the tide would turn again, she knows, and she wouldn't be ignored anymore. Not taking too long, she looks to the closest gate and rides Stranger out, not aware and not caring what direction it was, so long as it was away from the horrors of war. Only later will she wonder at how she could do any of it in the first place, the thunders of battle and the fire of the dragons making noise much too close to think, let alone act without fear.

* * *

**DVD Extras: I almost made it a cliff hanger. But then I couldn't write Sansa's section incomplete, which is what it felt otherwise... **

**Though it might be obvious, this chapter was definitely inspired by the pre Battle of Blackwater Bay scene where Bronn and Sandor pretty much get into a pissing contest. :p**


	9. You Are Mine

**Author's Notes: I did not mean for this update to take so long, but the mechanics of the words just felt off for the longest time. It's weird, having issues with the words, and not the story, rewriting and re-editing to basically say the same thing, just with different wording and phrasing... Anywho, I'm now going to put on my imaginary armor, and hope you all don't have metaphorical armor-piercing weapons. *hides***

**No smut. Tiny amount of fluff at the end. Apologies.**

**WARNINGS: Hella lot of angst. Blood, guts, suicide talks, more blood, troubled past of Sansa.**

* * *

**SANSA**

The second night was the worst.

The first night was awful, but there was something to keep her mind occupied at all times, terrible as it was.

The third day most surely would have been the worst, but for the grace of villagers who heard her crying screams, who came to investigate, and who ultimately would help her and her husband.

The second night, however, was the waiting game, fraught with demons and fear, sleeplessness and fatigue.

The first night saw Sansa finding a good place to hide within the woods, near a water source, and tending to Sandor's wounds. A fire was started, though she lacked the means to boil water. No mater, she cleaned his body, taking off more of his sweaty and clammy clothes. Though her eyes stung and blurred and her hands shook, his thigh was eventually reasonably banded and tied, and his shield arm (which she found to be burned) was also wrapped. She had taken the saddle blanket off of Stranger and covered Sandor with it, though it barely covered him.

Soon enough, she couldn't bandage him anymore; her dress was no more, except a corset and rags covering her parts. It was sunset of the second day, and that night was the worst. "Please," she begged, realizing she had no more supplies to use, "please let it work." The thigh wound stopped bleeding, and she breathed a tentative sigh of relief.

She remembered a time when she had left a man to die on the field. He had claim over her for a long while, and she went looking for him one night. Once she found him, she had learned from him how to tie a tourniquet, and bandage other wounds, as he lay there helpless, brusquely giving instructions. He then commanded her to drag him to his tent, demanded that she call for the Maester. He was an officer of some standing, surely he could be helped.

Yes, that could have been done, but something in his tone suggested no amount of humility or thanks; in fact, the man had always been downright abusive when it came to his words. A thread snapped, and she became cold, doing nothing. Anger clouded his eyes, as if he were in any position to punish her. He grabbed her wrist, weakly, and could only stare in horror as she tore away the tourniquet and blood ran freely.

"The North remembers." she had whispered, not really knowing why at the time, for surely she could not deal revenge on such a large scale; she would come to learn of her own personal strengths, regardless of who saw or who benefited.

"I'm sorry." She whispers, now, looking upon Sandor as he raggedly breathes one breath after another labored one. Surely this was a punishment for her ill and murderous deed. Never mind the fact that if anyone would be punished out of the two of them, it would be Sandor, for all his brutal history. To her, however, all she could see was another's angry brown eyes dimming and a harsh hand loosening its grip, blood welling within a cruel mouth.

"Please don't leave me." She begs. "I'm yours, remember?" And a smile tugs at her lips, "And you are mine. I won't let you leave me yet."

She leans over his chest, gently, feeling for his heartbeat, wanting to feel the wisp of his breath out of his mouth, to see his eyes move underneath the lids. He's pale, but other than the fact that his eyes are motionless, her other wishes are met.

The demons of the night soon come. What was she to do if he... if he died? She had once contemplated suicide, she can't remember when exactly, but she had been alone at that time. She came upon a man, a different one, dead upon the field. He had smiled when Death had claimed him, and though his smile was gruesome, flecked with blood, accompanied by sightless eyes, he looked... at peace. Was death an answer for happiness? A way to leave the cruel and uncaring world?

Her thoughts had been of her mother, father, and siblings. She thought of her future, so bleak and different from the one she once fantasized about. She had thought about her situation then, how far degraded she allowed herself to become. What kind of a life was this, to one who had lost so much? To one who had aspired for so high, and now couldn't even see out of the muck.

But, as when she had once considered leaving Sandor, there had been a feeling, an intuition, a guiding pull; "wait" it had said. One day at a time, she told herself, and each day there was a promise for another one to follow, all the way to now.

Grabbing Sandor's dagger, which had survived her frantic desire to rid him of heavy armor and weaponry, she contemplates again. There is nothing within her, now, to sustain life; if Sandor dies, she knows, she will die too. Her body hums with anticipation; not gladly, not resignedly, but deep and assured. Her connection to life, should he die, would thoroughly terminate, and she'd just... go with him, a stab to the heart less painful then losing him...

Sandor coughs, bringing her attention to him. It sounds ugly, like something lodged within his chest, and she leans down upon him, as if to ask what she could do to help him. When he stops coughing, he stops everything else as well.

Panicking, she waits with bated breath, waiting for the surely delayed surge of air to start again. "No.", when nothing happens. "NO!" She pounds his chest, punctuating her disbelief. "NO! DON'T DO THIS TO ME!" As if it was a slight against just her.

She leans her head down, closing her eyes against the sting, and whispering to no one in particular, "Don't take him away from me. Please." She takes a shuddering breath, before continuing to plead to whatever would listen, "You have my family, you have my dignity, and you have my baby... don't... don't to this to me..."

Looking back up to his face, pale and peaceful, "You can't leave." She slaps his chest, "You hear me! Huh? I FORBID IT!" She pounds his chest, pounding her authority to be obeyed, "YOU ARE MINE," she commands him, "COME BACK!" She pounds his chest, "PLEASE! NOOO! COME BACK!"

Sobs wrack her chest now; loud, long sobs, punctuated by her fist making contact with his chest, beating him for daring to try to leave her. As if she would allow it. "No..."

She leans her head on his chest, defeated.

Only to feel it rise.

It is her turn to be breathless. She leans up, and sees it for true, he is breathing again. She sobs again, falling on his chest in relief.

**SANDOR**

The first thing he sees when awakens is a dual fire. They both shake and shimmer. After a while he knows one to be a real fire, and the other to be Sansa, quietly sobbing across the room from him.

The trial of fire had always been his, and for always he had failed. The Battle of King's Landing was the latest one, and he had finally passed. No longer was that fear in command of him, only the fear to lose Sansa, and for that he had fought long and hard against the very army that brought fire to his face again. Only this time, as an arm that suffered some burns, it was, however, a thigh that suffered worse than the flame, the stabbed injury enough to possibly sever his ties to his Little Bird.

Seeing her cry, facing the window, he hopes it's tears of relief, because he will never leave her now. He remembers pain, blood, screams, fire... and her: his Little Bird telling him in a dream that he belonged to her. He swears he had fought against a tide of blackness, and it was only her voice that had led him home.

She comes running when he coughs her name. He grimaces in pain without meaning to, coming to realize the extent of wounds for the first time. Her smile takes it all away again.

* * *

**Post Script: Thanks for reading, reviewing, following! 3 This is the last depressing chapter, I promise, and we're coming up on the end of the story. **


	10. A New Life

**Author's Notes: again, sorry for the late delay. This was the result of two chapters, one that I didn't like, and the other that was the last chapter. I ended up chopping and weeding the chapter I didn't like so much, and adding it here. I hope it is liked, even if it might not flow with the rest. This is the most back history I have written for this story, and it makes me feel... like I'm ruining the story with it? I don't even know... There are so many things I want to say about it, but I won't bore you with my "notes". I hope it is enjoyed, and is a good ending to a fun ride :)**

**TO: JuliaAurelia, who guessed at what might happen, and it fueled the plot bunny a little bit. **

**TO: all reviewers/followers/favorites. Y'all rock. I couldn't have finished this without youse guys' support/enthusiasm. :)**

* * *

The Eyrie was the first to fall. Harrenhal should have been a lesson, but the Eyrie fell prey to the same prideful insistence that no army could penetrate its height or breadth. They discounted, like all others, the aerial assault of dragons.

A Targaryen duo led the attacks, the might of the Dornish followed. The masses that made up the rest were as varied as a wine cellars hold: sellswords, eunuch warriors, Dothraki Screamers, freed slaves, skins as light as arbor gold or dark as charred ash, eyes bulging or thin, bodies of sexual pleasure or of food delights; all and more followed a woman as small as Sansa, as beautiful, as refined as she once had been.

What followed was a rose choked between two thorns, the North falling in a succession of sweeping victories, while the South was cut off from supplies by road and sea. Essos took care of the north and Narrow Sea; Dorne took care of the Reach, Storm's End, and Dragonstone. Soon, all that was left was King's Landing.

They were attacked from the air. Blackwater Bay was too much of an enclosure, and neither the Essosi forces nor the Dornish had a strong navy to match the royal fleet. If not for Tyrion Lannister designing new catapults that would launch lances into the air, all would have been lost immediately. Though all it does is delay the inevitable, and the Imp receives no thanks or recognition.

The dragons attacked the side of the Keep by the sea, away from innocents and close to the water, a defense made unusable. Sandor was on the other side of the Keep, fighting man to man. While the dragons were more or less occupied with the strange catapults, the fighting at the gates were proving too much for the defenders; retreat after retreat, till the Keep was overrun by steel, blood, and screams; it was during this time that Sansa had rescued Sandor from the semi-deserted field.

In the end, it mattered not who won the battle, the war, or the kingdom, for Sandor and Sansa found themselves slowly trekking north, the original direction Sansa had stumbled out towards, and they never looked back. The first village had been close enough to King's Landing to have heard the gossip of the Hound and his Little Bird, and even the latest rumors that they had married for love, not strategy. That, coupled with her cries over his prone body when they first found her, had moved them to help the deserters.

The rest of the journey had not been as kind, but they were well supplied once more and quite motivated: love is a powerful motivator.

No one in the South knew or cared of the Hound's whore so didn't question her disappearance, but as for the Hound himself, his armor and helmet were found empty and bloodied, spare body parts strewn about; he was given for dead, and the new queen was satisfied with that. He wouldn't need his armor where he ended up, right at the beginning as it were: kennel master.

They had found their way north, to the "Gift", hiding in one of the many re-opened hold-fasts with Wildlings who couldn't understand their predicament if they wanted too, but they didn't.

Her real name became as dead as "Reyne" and "Tarbeck", and her new lowly name afforded her freedoms and happiness. His life was believed to be as extinguished as the flame. But the candle remained, to be re-lit when needed, but mostly a peaceful figure.

**SANDOR**

Snows fell heavily from the sky, swirling around town and blanketing Castle Black almost to complete whiteness.

He swivels his hips against her, holding her hips against him as she clings to the bed she lies on. She wails in parts pleasure, frustration, and excitement: such excitement he has never seen in her before, her lusts expanding as much as her stomach. He has less than half a mind to think it has something to do with the herbs the spear-wives give her, but the rest of him is a fog of pleasure.

Her legs, as always, surround him and caress him as they can, even as he stands in front of her at the edge of their bed.

He had never fucked a pregnant woman before, and found her changing body a new puzzle. She was more fragile than before, but still sought his heat, begging for it and challenging him to find the best way to penetrate her for both their pleasures. Even as he tries to be patient and careful, her lusts seem to overcome his own for her, as never before.

He slows his thrusts down; they have all the time in the world, after all. She huffs at him, and he feels her hips trying to dictate the pace, but he is stronger, in a better position, and denies her the speed.

He takes his time, drawing it out, sheathing himself in one stroke, to slowly pull out, groaning his own pleasure even as she arches and mumbles incoherently. He repeats the movement over and over again, aggravating her but he knows she loves it, as much as he does; adoring her little mewls and care she takes to wrap him in the blanket of her thighs. They're roughened from riding and walking, but still he never wants her to let him go. He stimulates her some more by reaching up to her breasts, fondling one, then the other, in between thrusts.

Slowly, her gasps and screams get louder, till she has to grab at him, whatever is closest to her, and squeezes his hand in a pleading manner: she cannot hold out much longer.

As he gradually speeds up again, he keeps a hold of her hand, squeezing it back though neither really pays attention to that, rather feeling the oncoming tidal wave of pleasure break in a tsunami over them both. He loses any semblance of control, jerking and grunting like a fool as he pistons his finish into her, drawing out her own ungraceful screams and uncoordinated movements.

Slowly, he regains consciousness, the fog of lust clearing from his senses, and he finds himself half over her, still inside and his head on her stomach, their future.

A dainty hand finds its way into his hair, scratching lightly and gently, and he in turn spans a hand over her swollen middle, the proof that even damaged and overly bitter wombs with years of poison behind them, could be made healthy and whole again with a different set of herbs. As much as he curses the Wildlings for influencing his Little Bird, he also praises their ingenuity and kindness they have shown his wife. And him, though he rarely acknowledges it.

He kisses their future, before maneuvering to lay beside his little wife, unable to utter her new name, but content to mutter "Little Bird" as he wraps her up in his arms.

The north has been good to both of them, and he finds many new things here he has never had before, besides a wife and a future: a home to call his own in "The Gift", though still under the shadow of Castle Black: a profession that did not require him to swing the sword: a hierarchy that dealt more magnanimously then what he was used to. Even the enemies were new, those without the Wall that threatened them because they were real monsters, not ones masked in beauty and faux honor.

And family, a true and good one, that was the best new thing he could ever have. Though, for Sansa, it was a treasure lost and found again. Her sister made it there, all right, and though he finds her annoying, he also finds her a worthy good-sister.

They had a bastard brother, too, it seemed, and he is the very definition of what an honorable brother should be: Sandor finds himself liking the young man too. Especially when the dragons eventually come to the Wall too, and Sansa's brother neither mentions nor reveals Sandor to the Mother of Dragons, only pointed her in the direction of the White Walkers.

The Others took themselves to hell, and Sandor finds himself quite pleased with where he and his little wife are now.

**SANSA**

She can tell he does not like her new name, never calling her it, but uses his nickname for her, even in public. Rarely, when he is especially distressed or tender, he'll call her by her old name, and she knows he needs her.

She can tell he misses the weight of the sword, sometimes grasping for the hilt and fumbling awkwardly when he finds it missing. Soon enough, though, he'll find his way to the practice yard of Castle Black to lend his experience to the green boys, or take a voluntary turn manning the Wall. But he always comes back to her and the kennels, and never does he mention his displeasure with where they are.

She fears, from time to time, that he regrets her, regrets leaving his life behind. At times, he stares off into the distance, or at his maimed thigh with a frown, or has nightmares of battles, or goes off riding Stranger as if the very demons of hell have been let loose. When she bravely confronts him about it, he calmly tells her his own fears that they will never be safe, that his past will catch up with them and he won't be there for her. She comes to learn he doesn't miss the sword, he fears it.

He is a mess when their daughter is born, but he looks adorable in his fear of dropping their girl, and she knows all is as well as it could be. She smiles at him, though he doesn't see her, so immersed in holding his "pup" correctly in his massive arms, listening like a little boy to the midwife who counsels him.

A few days later, he comes in on her unexpectedly in their room. She's bared a shoulder and breast under the furs to feed their babe. At this image, he smiles at her, a content and peaceful one, and a final weight of worry, one that she wasn't even aware of, falls away. She has never seen this smile on him before, and it warms her head to toe, heart to soul: she smiles back. He moves to sit behind her, surrounding his wife and babe with his protective arms.

For the first time since she ran away, she feels home again.


	11. Missing Scenes

**Author's Notes: I swear… this is the end of my stuff for this AU. (As far as I know, I mean, those muses really are like a bunch of workaholic slave drivers, you know what I mean?) If there is anything else… it will probably be in a separate story… Anywho, these are bits that I DID think of while still writing the rest, but thought they weren't really well developed, or didn't like it too much. But then the story was over, and my mind was free to look again at these almost discarded bits. I hope they are enjoyed…**

* * *

**LITTLE BIRD (Set between chapters 1 and 2)**

Sandor awoke, as he always did, from the sounds of the birds filtering through the tent canvass. It was an odd way for a man to awaken, day after day, but they had always chased the nightmares away when he was younger, and even as he grew older, bitter, and hardened, they remained the same cheerful things they were. A constant goodness to balance the constant crap he had to deal with on a day-to-day basis.

This morning was different, though, with a beautiful wanton woman in his arms, one that had not shied from his face, and who had seemingly enjoyed their fucking almost as much as he had. There were plenty of things vastly different with the situation, but he wasn't going to over think it, just take the fleeting moment and run with it.

The last time he awoke in a bed with the opposite sex still there in the morning, it had been when he and his sister shared warmth on cold nights; he can't remember it being as welcome as it is now, even when he loved his sister ten times more then this slip of a girl, barely a woman by the looks of her. It could have something to do with how hard he is, how warm her nether regions are as she half straddles him in her sleep, how content she looks next to him in her sleep, as if she shared his own peaceful night of deep sleep and calm dreams.

The arm that acts as her pillow wraps around her shoulders, as his other caresses her cheek, slightly bruised form her last man, but still soft and young. He moves to her lips, plump and swollen both from kissing and a cut. He recalls the pleasure she had voiced last night, the kisses she willingly gave, and he wants more. His hand wanders to her hip, grasping it, before rubbing their sexes together.

She moans, deep and slow, a nice contrast with the birds outside. He does it again, twice more, relishing how wet she becomes, before her eyes flutter open, hazy still with sleep. He watches her eyes slowly clear of fog, to brighten with recognition, and then darken again with lust. At that point, he thrusts into her wet warmth, groaning his own pleasure.

As they settle into a rhythm, he pulls her closer, inhaling her scent (dirty, sweaty, but still wonderfully feminine). Her arms become trapped within their writhing chests, but she can flatten her palms on him, at times scratches over his heart for each wonderful pulse she feels. And when she releases, she draws blood. The thin rivulets of red are nothing compared to his other scars, but still more meaningful, as time will tell.

He keeps pounding into her, relishing the rush of wetness that she's spurted, but unable to find his own end. Not yet anyway. He pulls her closer, bruises her hips as he relentlessly uses her for his own ends, not really worried about her pleasure. Still, when she flexes her leg to anchor herself to him, and cries out a second climax, he slows down.

She whimpers now, but does nothing to fight him off. If she had fought him, he might have gotten angry, but no, he slows down some more, groaning in his pleasant frustration, feeling the paradoxes of ecstasy, biting her neck to distract himself. He will never add to her bruises in a hurtful manner, but even now his bites and bruising hands are gentler then she's known before.

He moves to caress her sides, her back, her ass, all that he can reach as she's smothered against him, and soon she's moaning again, speeding up to match his vigor, and soon enough, they both finish, her wailing and he grunting the last of his thrusts.

After they calm down again, him on his back now with her laying half atop him, he hears the chirping of the birds again. Sighing, he looks to his conquest, and notices for the first times tears upon her face. Nothing else about her is sad though; she's humming and gently smiling, but still he remembers how he had to slow down for her at one point.

Grasping her chin, silencing her and making her look at him, he rasps at her, "You think I am a nice man?"

Her smile fades, "I know what it is like, you don't have to tell me, it's not all sunshine and daisies. But," And she leans up, removing herself from his chest and looking seriously at him, "I do what I have to, I do not regret it, not even when it hurts. You didn't mean for it to happen, otherwise, you wouldn't have slowed down. Last night, this morning, it was good."

He didn't mean for anything to happen, it just did. Still, if she found that her time spent with him was actually pleasing, he wasn't going to argue. "You're right," he replied, "just don't expect it all the time." he roughly finished.

Cupping her face, he wipes off the remaining tears, "Silly woman. Just like those damned birds outside, always expecting the best, always so damn cheerful." He smirks at her; "You sang a pretty song last night, though. Perhaps you _are_ a little birdie. Little Bird, shall I build a nest for you? Cover your pretty little head when next the storm comes?"

She doesn't seem embarrassed or angered over his jest, in fact, she laughs lightly along with him while lying against him again, "For as long as you'll keep my feathers dry, I'll gladly sing for you in return."

He laughs at her, bitter and harsh, regretting that the only woman to ever warm up to him was a fucking _camp follower_, one he'd have to let go of soon. He gently moves her away, moving to stand up himself. "Come, 'Little Bird', it's time to get ready and move camp."

She smiles at him as she grabs random clothing, "Since you know what to call me, it's only fitting I should know what to call you, m'lord."

Yanking his breeches on, he glares at her, "Anything but that! It's 'Hound', or Sandor, to you."

Blushing in contriteness, she looks away as she pulls on a dress. "I'm sorry… I didn't know."

Sighing, he concedes, "It's fine, just don't say it again. I'm not a lord, or a ser. I piss on them."

She nods, moving towards the tent flap, "I like 'Little Bird', I don't mind it, but" and she looks at him, whispering, "My name is Sansa."

He stares at her retreating figure, wondering why knowing her real name hurts; as if it would make things more permanent, or give things more meaning. He sighs, before noticing the birds are done their morning song, and sighs again, ready for the day to begin.

Before he moves to mount his horse and travel with the rest of the warriors, he tosses her a cloak to keep her warmer, but does nothing else for her, hoping that she doesn't get the wrong idea that he _likes_ her or some such shit like that._ For as long as he'll have her:_ she more or less said so herself, she knows not to expect anything more.

**WEDDING DAY (Set between chapters 7 and 8)**

For a while now, Shae had been part of Sansa's life again, helping her through the Keep, teaching her how to become a servant (they both laughed at how inept they were when the first start), and protected her from the knights and lords who liked to prey upon lowly skirts. She had left, along with Tyrion Lannister, fled to Casterly Rock where they both were freer to publicly court. It was all romantic, and Sansa wishes nothing but the best for her, but still, she also wishes Shae were here on the day of her marriage to Sandor.

Of course, Tyrion still corresponded with the capital, plans and figures and such, but there was no precedence for servants to do so. Sighing, Sansa nevertheless smiles, and butterflies make themselves known in her stomach, the thoughts of her friend no longer able to distract her.

She had spent the better half of the morning getting ready: bathing, combing her hair, styling it, dressing up in layer upon layer of cloth. It had been so long since she had dressed so finely, that she didn't even care that it was lowly cotton, handed down, and without frills. Instead, she smoothed down the ivory colored folds, rubbed her legs covered with stockings and garters together gleefully, and fingered the edges of the corset that enlivened her chest modestly, as a lady again, if for a short while only.

Even the silken small clothes, a gift from Sandor himself, caused her to giggle mischievously, instead of embarrassed like she might have once done as a girl.

There is a knock on the door, and Bronn walks in. There is no one fatherly or a mentor to walk her to the altar (or weirwood, as she requested), so he had volunteered to do so, a man Sandor trusted, one of his soldiers.

(Others in the castle would come: some were her acquaintances, some were those Sandor actually trusted, while others came to see the farce [in their eyes] of the dog marrying his bitch.)

The fluttering of her stomach increases, and her face goes red. There is no reason to be nervous, after all, they've already lived like lovers for many moons already, and already professed said love and protection, what was there to be nervous about?

She was a little girl, again, to answer honestly. Her dreams, forgotten for so long, returned and made her giddy. Her mouth never hurt so much from smiling, her stomach never tumbled so roughly from nerves, her hands never shook so much from happiness. She wonders if Sandor felt any of it?

His face was passive and stone faced, as always in public, when she walked towards him. He only had eyes for her, however, and his feet couldn't seem to decide which was the one to stand upon. Instead of waiting for the septon to hand her hand over, he reached forward to grab it, and she felt the sweat upon his palms. She smiled at him to assure him, and he in turn rubbed his thumb over her knuckles to reassure her.

Red leaves filtered down, gently swaying and turning, caught be sunlight at times to flare with beauty, before touching the ground in a blanket. Other then that, nothing of the outside world invaded her senses, all she had attention for was Sandor, to hear his rasping breath and vows, to smell his clean musky smell, to see her gift to him over his shoulders, to touch his hands, and soon enough, to feel his lips in an ironically chaste kiss. Oh, but what a kiss it was: a promise, a declaration, and a sensation like no other.

They were tied together, and cloaks were exchanged, but it all seemed meaningless, compared to the wealth of emotions stirring throughout her, striking like lightning and flaring long and hot as a warm summer's night. His eyes were pools of lust, made depth-less by the love that waved underneath; she couldn't wait to drown in him, to be consumed by him, any more then she already was.

What was this ceremony, to a couple that had already given all that they had? It was not the beginning and it was not the end. It was not a footnote, or a highlight. It was... the sum of all that went before; a catalyst for all that would follow. A focal point, to know that all was not for nothing, and all would serve a purpose. Dreams were fulfilled, and new ones bloomed.

Sandor cloaked her, a cloak she stitched of three dogs a field in autumn yellow, and when he had surrounded her with the cloth and his scent, he had kissed her neck from behind, stroking her arms warmly before standing before her again. She knew he had dreams too, dreams he would deny, dreams he wouldn't be aware of having, but dreams nevertheless. He was to take a woman, a promise of home and family, and he would not settle to loose them. She wonders at how strange it was for him, to a man who never even thought beyond the expectation that it wouldn't happen at all. Was he afraid? Scared? Apprehensive?

He smiles at her, finally, as they walk away from the godswood of the Keep, leaving their guests to follow, ready for a small feast in a small room somewhere in the maze of walls. If he is afraid, he bravely faces it, and she wonders if it's her own smiles towards him that assuages his negative thoughts.

She never wears her bride's clothing again, he never wears the cloak she stitched for him again, but their vows last a lifetime, never to be forgotten or shed.


End file.
